“Montgomery Blake,” he said, sticking out a gnarled, weather-beaten hand. “You must be Meg Langslow.”
So it really was him, or a damned good impersonator. Still tongue-tied with surprise, I shook the offered hand, and my star-struck awe gave way to irritation as I realized that Blake was one of those men who saw shaking hands as a contact sport. I reacted the way I usually do. Blacksmithing has made my hands a good deal stronger than most women's, so I returned his death grip, with interest. I noted with some satisfaction the wince he couldn’t entirely hide, and then immediately felt guilty. Blake must be at least ninety. I should be marveling that he still had so much strength, not getting sucked into some macho competition.
“You have a firm grip for a woman,” he said.
Considering what I’d tried to do to his hand, that was a little like saying that King Kong was tall for a chimp. And what was I supposed to answer: “Thanks—you’re pretty strong yourself for a senior citizen”?
I settled for “Thanks.”
“I like that in a woman,” he said. “Must be the blacksmithing.”
I suppose some people would have been flattered at the notion that someone so famous was taking an interest in them. It only made me nervous.
“Here,” he said, shoving forward the wad of papers he was now holding in his left hand. A bunch of envelopes and flyers. I took them and glanced at them, puzzled, until I realized that he’d just handed me our mail. Which he’d apparently been studying while waiting for me to answer the doorbell.
“How come that jerk's got you on his mailing list?” he asked, his finger stabbing at one of the flyers. “Surely you’re not even thinking of voting for him. His environmental record's unspeakable.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when I have a chance to study our mail,” I said. The nerve of the man! If I’d been caught going through someone's mailbox, I’d have been mortally embarrassed— and here Blake was hectoring me about the contents of mine. I took a deep breath and kept my voice neutral. “Can I help you with something?”
“Is Dr. Langslow here?” he asked. “They told me over at the farmhouse that he might be.”
“He's in the backyard with the hyenas.”
“You have pet hyenas?” he asked.
“I hope not,” I said, and led the way through the house.
Chapter 9
We found Dad and Eric in the kitchen. Dad was wringing out a damp cloth. Evidently he’d already met our new guest—he greeted Dr. Blake with enthusiasm.
“Blake!” he exclaimed. “Come to help with the animals? Splendid! You can see to the hyenas while I take care of my patient.”
To Blake's credit, he didn’t balk—just followed Dad out into the yard and strode over to the hyena cage while Dad helped Dr. Smoot into a nearby lawn chair and applied the hot compress he’d brought from the kitchen.
“Ah!” Blake said, with satisfaction, circling the cage to inspect its occupants. “Crocuta crocuta!”
“What's that?” Eric asked. Ever alert to sources of entertainment, he had tagged along at Blake's heels.
“The spotted hyena,” Blake said, in his best on-camera voice. “Their scientific name is Crocuta crocuta. Three reasonably good specimens here. A trifle underweight, but we’ll soon have them back on a proper nutritional program.”
“Stand back from the cage, Eric!” I said. “We don’t want you becoming part of the hyenas’ nutritional program.”
“Would they really eat me?” Eric asked. He sounded a bit nervous—perhaps because all three hyenas were staring intently at him.
“Oh, yes!” Blake exclaimed. “They’re quite efficient predators.”
“There now,” Dad was saying to Dr. Smoot. “What's the trouble?”
“In the wild, of course, they prey mostly on the larger herd animals,” Blake went on. “But they’re opportunistic feeders.” “Vampires,” Dr. Smoot said.
“Nonsense!” Blake exclaimed. “Hyenas aren’t vampires, or even pure scavengers. True predators. Intelligent ones.”
“I meant in the basement,” Dr. Smoot said.
“Are there vampires in the basement?” Eric echoed.
“There are no vampires in our basement,” I said. “Only police.”
“Yes, why are the police in your—,” Blake began.
“That's where my claustrophobia started,” Dr. Smoot broke in, sounding rather cross at having his confession interrupted. “With my big brothers doing their vampire thing in the basement.”
“Their what?” Blake asked, frowning.